


Hidden in the Folds of Your Wings

by Aleekae



Series: Hidden in the Folds [1]
Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Good luck with the feels, Like angel wings, M/M, They all have wings, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleekae/pseuds/Aleekae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His wings were weak, he could feel them protest every time he forced them flush against his skin, he never let them spread out in fear of seeing a splash of red in the corner of his eye. They were smaller than normal, and he knew that they weren’t growing properly anymore. He felt the dull ache of unused muscles every morning, starting at the base of his shoulders and traveling down to where the last marred feather lay against his thigh. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.</p><p>They were on the run, and flying was not an option anymore.</p><p>(A TFC Wingfic AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden in the Folds of Your Wings

_You have to keep them hidden_ his mother whispered reverently. She was strong, in more ways than one, and he was reminded of that every time he slipped up. Every time a feather protruded just slightly out of place, every time he failed to mention that he was _wingless_ to strangers, and every time he moaned in pain as his feathered appendages were repeatedly stuffed inside clothes that were two sizes too big for him. He hated how strong she was, but he needed her strength. It was the only way they could survive together.

He never saw his mom’s wings anymore. He could hardly remember the times when she would let him pet them while she laid on her front, reading a book she had read a thousand times. The light brown and black feathers had felt like silk, soft to the touch and strong. They were strong enough to carry them away, away from his father and away from his only friend. Now he could only remember them in his dreams, just like his own. His wings reminded him of his father’s wings, and that was enough reason to keep them hidden. He knew that the colors were different from everyone else’s. He would see splashes of red and auburn every now and then, but never the same configuration, the same gradient as his own. They were a neon sign that said _Nathaniel Wesninski_. They never let him run away from his past, and they never would.

His wings were weak, he could feel them protest every time he forced them flush against his skin, he never let them spread out in fear of seeing a splash of red in the corner of his eye. They were smaller than normal, and he knew that they weren’t growing properly anymore. He felt the dull ache of unused muscles every morning, starting at the base of his shoulders and traveling down to where the last marred feather lay against his thigh. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

They were on the run, and flying was not an option anymore.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _Stay hidden_. It was a mantra, a Kyrie whispered in the deepest depths of his being. It was repeated in time with his heartbeat, a measure of how desperate he was to stay hidden forever, to never have to face what lies beyond the closet doors. He was shaking, shivering, trembling.

His wings embraced him on all sides, big enough to offer comfort but weak enough to know that it wouldn’t last. A strip of light invaded from a crack where the double doors met, cutting him in half and illuminating a section of blonde hair and blonde wings, a tuft of light blue and green down peeked out beneath adult feathers that were hardly strong enough to defend, to protect the small boy that protected them.

The closet smelled like mothballs and laundry detergent, and through the tears that pooled in hazel eyes he could see spirals of dust floating through the strip of light. It was well past his bedtime; the set curfew of 7:00 PM hadn’t been suggested more than it had been commanded of him, and he always kept it despite knowing that it wouldn’t make a difference how late he retreated to his room, the results were always the same.

He was angry, he was confused, he was lonely. But most of all he was scared.

“Andrew,” a man’s voice permeated the air, thick and crude like a vat of sludge that coated his throat. He couldn’t breathe anymore.

“I know you’re in here,” it was like a game. A game that had one result, and only one player truly enjoyed it. Like a rigged game of Jenga. No matter how hard you tried to stabilize the tower, it would come tumbling down as soon as that one piece was pulled out. You both knew which piece would send it toppling, and the other player would hold out until the very last second to remove it in a sudden, unhesitant movement. His body went numb as the pieces tumbled. He couldn’t move anymore.

“The closet is so predictable, Andrew. I taught you better than this,” the closet doors opened and a sea of light cascaded into the enclosed space, waves and waves of torturous brightness that revealed him to the unforgiving world. He was no longer hidden. The small boy squinted at the shadowed form reaching, grabbing, and pulling at the wings attempting to protect him. Attempting, but not succeeding. He cried out, and rough hands immediately clapped over his mouth. He couldn’t speak anymore.

He was dragged away from his hiding spot. Dragged away from safety. Dragged away from a promise. And he was dragged away by his wings.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _I don’t want to hide anymore_. The thought had come to him in the middle of the night, a nagging sensation in the back of his mind. It came in the form of an Exy racquet, slammed into his stomach with perfect precision and strength. In the form of a mangled pair of blonde wings, interlaced with shades of blues, greens, and browns. In the form of a maniacal grin, smiling even when the situation was far from funny. And in the form of a black number two, inked into the upper cheekbone of his one and only childhood friend.

He grabbed the plane tickets that laid next to his mattress and traced the name printed on the front of them. _Neil Josten_. It felt like a promise, to himself and to the world, that he wasn’t running at the moment. He was stagnant, an unmovable force that would disregard his mother’s wishes and follow his own path. Whether it was the wrong move or the right move, it was his move. This was his game, and he was the only player for the first time in his life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Let me stay,” Neil said quietly, “I’m not ready to give this up yet.”

 _Hiding wasn’t the only defense mechanism_. Neil was an enigma, a puzzle, a game that had no clear instructions taped helpfully to the lid of the box. His parents were killed by the Moriyama’s, and Andrew believed every word of it. The sick, curved smile that consumed Neil’s face and the desperate fingers attempting to claw it off made Andrew sick to his stomach.

Neil wanted what Kevin had, a dysfunctional group of misfits and a psychopath hyped up on drugs and promises to help him stay alive. Hiding in a closet didn’t always work. Sometimes you needed to fight for your hiding places.

“Keep it if you can. You and I both know it won’t last long.”

Andrew wanted to poke and prod at his resolve, at his insane desire to stay. He wanted to test it, stretch it as far as it would go and watch it bounce back into place as if the stress had never affected it. He didn’t know how far the lies ran, but he did know four truths;

Neil’s parents were dead.

He didn’t kill them.

Neil’s wings had blue in them, as sharp and as bright as a clear morning sky. And Andrew didn’t care enough to see them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _There’s no place to hide_. Evermore was dark, blacks and reds molded together to form a cavern of nightmares that crowded and consumed. It was dark, but there was nowhere to hide. The knives and the handcuffs and the crude, low voice found him no matter where he was. He didn’t want to hide, in fact he wanted to spit in Riko’s face the moment he was forced onto the bed and restrained against his will. He wanted to shout and scream and fight. He wanted to survive the game.

But the moment he entered the Nest he knew that he wouldn’t win. His wings were forcefully tugged out from the confines of his jeans, and he saw white hot pain flutter and flare from where the tips were bent and skewed. He had kept them hidden for so long, stuffed into baggy clothes and held flush against his back with cheap leather belts. They yearned to stretch, to be free of their confines, but not like this. Never like this.

He cried out as Riko flexed his right wing, flapping it up and down like a toy mechanism that existed solely for his amusement. Every movement, every ruffle of feathers, sent a jolt of pain throughout Neil’s body. He fought against the black edges that threatened to crowd his vision, but he knew that the fight was lost, and that the war had only just begun.

“Your wings are a disgusting color. Blood, blood and more blood,” He laughed, a disgusting giggle that cut through the air like a dull knife, “Ooh, and some blue here and there. Just like your _father’s_.”

Neil stopped fighting the darkness, and hid in it like he used to do all those years ago.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _He’s not hiding them anymore_. It was the first thought that crossed Andrew’s mind as he followed a nurse into the hospital lobby. His second thought was _Who forced him?_

Neil’s face was battered, covered in bandages that obscured his sharp features and dulled his bright, piercing blue eyes. A shock of auburn hair replaced the dyed black mess that had been there before, but what caught Andrew’s attention was the brittle mess of wings that hung limply on either side of him, blue and red and bloody. They were small, threadbare and broken as if rubbed against a cheese grater. A very dull cheese grater.

Andrew didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He moved on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _I can’t stay hidden. They deserve better._  He owed them an explanation, apologies stacked upon apologies to help explain what had just happened, and why they had gotten involved. But he was speechless.

The Foxes were spread out around the hotel room, various states of shock, worry and confusion greeted him as they caught sight of Neil. Of _Nathaniel_. There was a hollow look on Kevin’s face, his black and emerald wings pulled taut and tense. Fresh bruises lined his neck, and Nathaniel was suddenly aware of how many injuries they had sustained during the planned mob attack. Renee and Allison were huddled together on the farthest bed, pitch black wings brushing up against tan ones in silent comfort as they both sported black eyes and bandaged appendages. Dan and Matt sat together on the other bed, Matt in the process of being treated by Abby. They both looked ready for a fight, black and brown wings poised to strike at Agent Browning. Aaron sat at the foot of the bed closest to Nathaniel, a blur of blues, greens, and browns greeting him as a familiar comfort. 

“Where’s And—“

There was a crash behind Nathaniel, and he finally felt like he could breathe again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_He’s my hiding place. But there’s no reason to hide anymore._

Neil was only ever quiet when he was asleep. He was loud-mouthed, annoying, and kept getting himself into trouble, but that was a hard thing to remember when the sharp edges of his personality were softened by morning’s yellow light. Andrew stared. And he stared and he stared and he stared.

Their Jenga tower stood like an immovable skyscraper, the pieces intact and unremoved from the wooden structure. They were worn and crumbling, but their foundation was solid. So incredibly solid, and neither player was amused by the game anymore.

After Evermore, after Baltimore, and after the last game of the year, Neil and Andrew continued to heal together. They fought because their lives depended on it, and they won the war because they were tired of losing the fight.

Andrew exhaled slowly, tufts of Neil’s auburn hair moved as a ghost of breath disturbed them. He found that it was easier to breathe with Neil laying next to him.

He reached up and smoothed his hand over ruffled feathers at the base of Neil’s shoulders, the silky wings warm and so much healthier than they had been in years past. He allowed himself to move, to act on his feelings. It was easier to move with Neil around; he was always encouraging him to show his affection.

“Morning,” blue eyes were staring into hazel, bleary from sleep but so full of something. Something that Andrew could never allow himself to have. But he allowed small things, like mornings and cats and sweets and cigarettes.

“Morning.” It was always easier to speak with Neil around. But if Neil wanted to hear those three words, if Neil wanted to know everything about his past, if Neil wanted to know how much his wings reminded him of sunsets, of trips to the rooftop with cigarette smoke and whiskey permeating his tongue, of bright reds and blues arching over buildings and stars peaking out of the darkest corners of the sky, he would never tell him.

Not yet. 

He was still hiding. But at least he was hiding someplace safe.

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful [Saul](https://unkingly.tumblr.com/) made fanart for this fic ----> [ITSGORGEOUS](https://unkingly.tumblr.com/post/146657583184/he-was-angry-he-was-confused-he-was-lonely-but)
> 
> Credit goes to [Hazzafluff](http://hazzafluff.tumblr.com/) / [Kimmiekit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimmiekit) for helping me come up with some of the wing stuff <3 (I don't claim to be a bird/wingfic expert, so she was an enormous help THANK)
> 
> Check me out on [tumblr](http://welliefox.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
